


Phantom of Ash

by SerenLyall



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Violence, non-EU compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLyall/pseuds/SerenLyall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the detonator went off in Leia's face, it was as if Han could feel the universe shifting and realigning itself. When he knelt over her bloody and half-broken body, breath rasping in her lungs and heartbeat weak, he thought No, this isn't right. But then, the Force works in mysterious ways. And sometimes--sometimes it takes something breaking for something else to be healed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom of Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Star Wars, and all things thus related, from characters to places, names to ideas, do not belong to me. They belong to George Lucas, Disney, and all other respective owners. No money was made from the writing of this fic-only the enjoyment of a poor college student
> 
> Please note: Individual chapters may lean more toward a mature rating. A note will be made at the beginning of each such chapter, and less-explicit versions will be available upon request. All applicable triggers will be noted at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> Chapter warnings: mentions of violence; graphic descriptions of injury
> 
> Time frame: approximately 13 years post A New Hope; Leia is 31, Han 41.
> 
> Regarding this AU: The AU elements will not at first be apparent, as it is a movie-canon compliant deviance (meaning that all that is happened in the movies remained the same in this universe).  
>  
> 
> This is the first multi-chaptered fic I have attempted to write/post in...well, over a year now, I think. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> Many thanks go out to my mates on tumblr: absynthe—minded, 1000-alshain (also known as LASOS), smugglerofsass, threadsketchy, and thejabberwocki for all of their help, support, encouragement, and advice as I've begun this great adventure. Seriously, without you all, this would never have come to be.
> 
> Lastly, I hope you all enjoy the story - and I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Chapter 1: sweet taste of summer blood

_"The wind blows out, the bubble dies;_  
_The spring entombed in autumn lies;_  
_The dew dries up, the star is shot;_  
_The flight is past: and man forgot."_  
_~Sic Vita, by Francis Quarles_

The tranquil summer afternoon drifted in through the large, arched windows lining the front of the rotund lobby. Sunbeams danced across the tile floors, pregnant with the drifting haze of fine dust and failing heat, lending the spacious entryway a warm, comfortable sense of peace. The bronze letters mounted upon the far wall, opposite the double sliding entrance doors, burned a quiet, gleaming copper, as if a hidden fire lurked within the words. _Alsarchan emblemeth_ , they read _. Healing for all._

The double doors slid open, admitting a cloud of heat and a swirl of choking dust—and with that, the quiet peace of the summer’s afternoon was shattered.

“Hold!” The command was sharp, urgent, the words muffled by the heavy air outside but carrying no less crisp authority. “Zanis, Evaan—“

Two people sprinted in through the opening doors, dust-covered boots thudding on the tiles. The man in the lead didn’t slow, and within seconds he had disappeared into the arched hallway on the far side of the lobby, voice raised in an echoing shout. The second runner, a woman with honey-gold hair, slid to a halt a few paces inside the door, amber eyes flashing as she surveyed the room in a broad sweep.

“Clear,” she shouted, turning back toward the door, holstering the blaster that had been resting unobtrusively in her right hand.

“Get her in. Go!”

The woman slid back, giving way before the sudden crowd of people piling in through the door. Two more guards came first, blasters drawn and faces hard—an ugly, blistering burn marred the cheek of one of the soldiers, while the other sported a blood-soaked right sleeve—followed by the tall, dark-haired and hazel-eyed, commanding form of Han Solo, former General of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, now Prince Consort of New Alderaan. His finely cut clothing—a long, Alderaanian-cut tunic with a high collar and broad belt over dark pants and black boots, the wine-red bloodstripe a sharp contrast to the bright blue of his shirt—was covered in dust and smeared with long streaks of drying blood. Three men and a woman, all in the garb of Alderaanian royal guards and bearing a makeshift stretcher, came next, walking in slow and careful unison so as not to jostle the unconscious woman lying limply at the center of the singed tarp. Two more guards followed, blasters also drawn, and behind them trailed half a dozen men and women, a Rodian, and two Twi-leks, all dressed in fine clothing stained with dust, many with burns or cuts that oozed thick droplets of congealing blood.

The first runner reappeared just as the stretcher-bearers crossed the threshold, leading two women and a man dressed in healer’s garb, with two orderlies following behind pushing a gurney. Han Solo pushed his way to the fore of the group, stepping forward to meet the newcomers.

“You got our message?” he asked, voice as sharp and commanding as when he had issued the order to hold, even if it was now quieter.

“Where is she?” the head nurse snapped by way of response—but she spared the Prince little more than a glance before she was pushing past him, already shouting for the bed and the other healers to hurry.

They worked with crisp, terse efficiency. Within a moment, the unconscious form of Leia Organa, Queen of New Alderaan and Head Diplomat of the New Republic, had been transferred from the blood- and soot-stained tarp onto the gurney. One of the nurses fastened a breathing mask over her nose and mouth, while another ran a thin mediscanner over her neck and chest. The screen flashed brilliant red once, twice, three times, and from Han’s hovering position a few steps away, he caught sight of a dozen warnings flashing across the small screen before the nurse shut off the scanner and shoved it into a pouch fastened to her thigh.

“We need to get her to surgery,” the nurse barked. “Now.”

The head nurse gave a sharp, short nod, then leapt up to crouch beside Leia on the bed. “Go,” she ordered, and the white-clad orderlies began to wheel the gurney out of the atrium and down the hall they had emerged from.

Han followed, motioning for the golden-haired woman to follow. “Evaan, with me,” he commanded. She obeyed without hesitation, falling into step half a pace behind Han’s left shoulder, her unreadable expression an ice-cold contrast to the wild cacophony of emotions that rioted across Han’s, filling his eyes with a roiling tempest and twisting his mouth into a terrible grimace.

They hurried down the broad hallway, boots slapping against the polished tiles as they followed close behind the rushing gurney. The walls were lined with portraits of balding men and grey-haired women, all dressed in formal healer attire, all bearing the crossed wing emblem of the Archan Trauma Center, copper plates beneath each painting identifying the names and years served as Head Healer. Closed doorways broke the walls in even intervals to either side, with silver plaques identifying the occupants and their roles, from doctors to financial assistants.

A rotunda opened up at the end of the hallway, small arched windows along the top of the wall allowing thin shafts of golden light to fall across the tiled floor, while smoke-dusted lamps mounted on the walls shed a hazy silver light, filling the waiting area in front of the three lift doors set in equal distance around the half circle with a soothing glow. The central lift door slid open with a small chime, and the nurses and orderlies sprang into action once again, wheeling the bed into the spacious lift.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the second female nurse—a young woman with onyx eyes and curling copper-brown hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck—said, holding up a hand as she stopped in front of Han and Evaan. “I’m afraid it’s against policy for anyone without proper clearance to pass beyond the first floor. If you would like to go to the admission office-”

“You’re not going to stop me,” Han growled, taking a step forward. He loomed over the young woman, and she took an involuntary step backwards.

“Sir, our patients-”

Evaan stepped forward, her face as coldly expressionless as before, yet somehow more severe. “An attempt was just made on my Queen’s life,” she said, low and quiet and yet deadly fierce. “If you try to keep me—or the Prince—from staying by her side, you and your entire staff will be regarded as threats, and will be treated as such.”

“Karalin,” the head nurse said tightly. “Let them in—we don’t have time for dealing with this right now.”

The young woman—Karalin—nodded and stepped back, tucking herself into a narrow space between the gurney and the lift wall. There was just enough space for Han and Evaan to cram in as well. Then the lift doors were closing, and they began to rise swiftly.

There was not much room in the lift, with six people standing and two more on the bed. Han’s shoulder touched the wall, while his hip pressed against the gurney, and Evaan stood at his back, her breath whispering against his ear. Tense silence filled the lift as they rushed upwards, passing the second floor, then the third, a soft chime alerting them as they reached, then passed each landing.

He glanced down at Leia laid out on the thin mattress, eyes drawn of their own accord to the slack face of his wife despite the horror he knew he would see. Blood streaked the left side of her face, a crimson mask of gore cascading from the hollow gouge torn through her scalp and skull just above her temple, while blistering burns trailed long, angry talons from her cheek down to her hip. Much of her clothing was little more than charred remains, the detonator that had gone off mere feet from her too much for even the carefully woven cloth armor meant to stymie blaster bolts and vibroblades. More blood pooled slowly from two wounds in her stomach and side, pieces of debris visible where they jutted from her flesh.

Not for the first time did Han wonder if the gamble they had taken moving her themselves, rather than risking the extra time to wait for professional medical help, was the wrong choice.

The chime for the sixth floor filled the lift, and the doors slid open soundlessly. Han quickly backed out into the atrium—a mirror image to the first floor, save for the rose-tinted lamp shades—and moved to the side, allowing the orderlies plenty of space to maneuver the gurney out of the lift. Evaan followed him out, though she took up a sentry’s position on the opposite side of him, her amber eyes flashing as she glanced up each of the three hallways spreading out like rays from the rotunda. Each of them were empty.

The bed emerged from the lift, and began rolling down the center hallway, flanked by the nurses. As soon as they were past, Han and Evaan spun, falling into quick step a few paces behind the orderly maneuvering the gurney from behind.

The air was chilled, the soft hush of the artificial cooling system whispering through the hall in counterpoint the near-silent scratch of the gurney wheels upon tile. Everything was still—eerily, steriley so—and the unnatural hush of only a hospital pervaded the long hallway.

A door a dozen yards down the hall opened with a startling hiss of air, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out into the hallway.

He was dressed in loose-fitting, cream shirt and trousers, with soft boots and no belt. His hair was dark but for a frosting of silver at his temples that had begun to creep up toward the crown of his head, and his face was clean-shaven. Most striking, however, was the large scar sprawled across the man’s right cheek, stretching from jaw to forehead, cutting through his right eye and puckering above his ear. It was an old, ugly red that stood out against the man’s olive-dark skin, and even with the distance between them, Han could make out the shape etched out by the old burn: the distinct circle and spokes of the Imperial Crest.

Han felt his stomach tighten, then churn. It did not take a genius to figure out what had happened to the man.

There was little time for contemplation or pity, however. Within seconds, the space between the gurney and its bearers and the man had shrunk to a scant half dozen feet—and the man had yet to move aside. Rather, he had frozen where he stood in the center of the hallway, his eyes—one dark and bright, the other clouded white and grey with scar tissue—wide and fastened upon the burned and bloody form of the Queen of New Alderaan as she drew near. There was something strange in his expression—something at once empty and blank, yet wild and broken too. Something confused and fearful like prey caught out in the open meadow while the hawk circles overhead, yet startled and feral like a wild dog backed into a corner.

Han tensed and began to quicken his pace, the first burning droplets of renewed adrenaline hissing in his blood. If this man was another Imperial assassin...

“Timmon,” Karalin snapped, hurrying forward of the gurney even as it slowed, so as not to ram straight into the immobile man. "Step back.”

An echoing second of silence, of indecision, of ice. Then, “No.” The tall man’s voice was soft, like water beneath mist, and weak. Confused. He didn’t look away from Leia, his hauntingly empty gaze pinned to where she lay. “No,” Timmon said again, louder—and this time there was a current of determination beneath the refusal that had been lacking before, an edge of flickering flame. Something twisted in his eye. “I can’t. She’s…”

He hesitated, gaze flickering at last from Leia's slack face to Karalin, before snapping back  
to the unconscious queen a second later. His eyes were wide, a symphony of emotions playing openly across his face: indecision, confusion, desperation, and beneath it all, a curling tendril of fear. “No, she’s…” He stepped around Karalin, and reached out to touch Leia.

Evaan sprang forward in a sprint, teeth locked in a savage, silent snarl, and slammed into the man, knocking him back in the instant before his fingers brushed Leia’s forehead. She twisted, delivering a short, sharp blow to Timmon’s stomach with an elbow, then shoved him back against the wall with a shoulder to his chest. Rounding, she drew her blaster and, stepping close, shoved it beneath the taller man’s chin.

Three things happened at once. The male nurse whirled with a startled shout, taking a step toward the two; Han barked “Evaan!”; and the man, for a split second frozen in shock as his back rammed into the wall, snapped. He moved faster than Han could process, twisting out of Evaan’s hold. Then Evaan was sprawling to the floor, and only a quick roll saved her from landing flat on her back.

The man, Timmon, froze again, wide eyes widening further still as he looked from Evaan rising from the floor to her blaster, which he now held in his hand.

“Timmon.” The male nurse stepped between the man and the fallen Alderaanian woman, lifting a hand. “Peace, Timmon. Timmon, give me the blaster.” He reached for the weapon, and Han tensed, half-expecting the man to lift it and fire. But Timmon did not even move as the nurse grabbed the barrel of the blaster, then pulled it gently from Timmon’s loosened grip. “Adaly,” the nurse said to head healer crouched on the gurney, not taking his eyes off of Timmon. “Go, get her to surgery. I’ll take care of this.”

Timmon blinked, half-gasped a quick breath, then shook his head as if stung. “No,” he said, voice dripping strangled and desperate from between his lips. “No, no, don’t hurt her, don’t-”

“We’re not going to hurt her,” the nurse soothed. “We’re trying to help her.”

Behind them, the two orderlies began to wheel the gurney still bearing Leia past, sliding the bed through the space between the two men and the opposing wall. Evaan skittered out of the way, but her gaze remained fastened on Timmon, her face hard. Han followed the gurney, sliding behind the nurse, watching and waiting…

“No!” Timmon’s cry was far stronger than anything he had yet said, and he made a lunge forward, as if to stop the gurney. “No, don’t take her. Don’t hurt her-”

Han twisted, reaching for his own blaster strapped to his hip. But the nurse was faster. His hand flashed up from the pouch on his side, and then the quiet but distinct snick of a hypo releasing filled the sudden quiet. Timmon stumbled, one hand reaching for the side of his neck. And then he fell as the fast-acting sedative burned through his veins.

Silence. A long, interminable second in which time was frozen, in which Han’s breath hung immobile in his throat, in which is blood turned to bone. _Kest_ , he thought vaguely, distantly, like thin smoke drifting through a hazy sky, _who was that?_

And then time lurched back to its usual stumbling race, and Han’s breath rushed from his lips in a savage sigh, and his blood roared hot and furious through his veins, the bite of his adrenaline singing in his ears. The man lay in a motionless sprawl, his body slack, his head lolling listlessly against the cold floor.

“Evaan,” Han ordered, turning toward the younger woman, “stay with him.”

For a split second, Evaan’s eyes narrowed and her lips thinned dangerously. But then she nodded sharply, either reaching her own conclusion, or reading something in his face that warned her not to argue—that told her plainly just why Han wanted her to remain with the nurse and the now-unconscious Timmon.

_We can’t be too careful. Not now. Not when it’s Leia’s that life hangs in the balance…_

Han turned and hurried after the retreating gurney, lengthening his stride until he was nearly running. He caught the small procession just as they turned the corner, pulling into a back hallway that arced along the back wall of the facility. He barely had time to process the screens mounted upon the wall—all but one of them dark and blank, their glossy surfaces reflecting the bright artificial lights mounted into the ceiling—and the signs mounted above each of the large doorways, listing the rooms as Surgeries 1-6. Smaller doors were set into recesses in the walls beside each surgery, key-card slots blinking a slow and steady red.

The orderlies halted the gurney bearing Leia in front of the only door with an active screen, the sign labeled Surgery 1. The screen held no information, though it glowed silver-white and half a dozen small empty boxes showed where data could—and likely would—be input later: patient status, scheduled surgeries, medications, healers—both surgeons and nurses—attending, as well as personal information such as race, blood type, height, and weight.

Karalin palmed open the surgery door, which opened with a soft _whoosh_ of air. Han glimpsed a large room filled with medical equipment—and then his view was obstructed as Leia was wheeled inside. As soon as the gurney was over the threshold, the door closed with a decisive _snick_.

“Hey!” Han shouted, lunging forward. He ran his hand over the same scanner the nurse had used to open the door, but it remained firmly sealed shut. “Hey!” he yelled again, lifting a fist to pound once, twice on the door. “What do you think you’re-”

The door opened abruptly, and Han’s fist met only air as he made to bang on the thick plastisteel again. He lurched, off-balance, and would have stumbled forward, but for the large hand that caught his elbow.

“Easy, sir,” one of the orderlies said quickly, steadying him. “Trying to break down the door won’t do anything but hurt your hand.” There was a lurking glimmer of humor in the big man’s voice, and when Han glanced up at him—he was at least three inches taller than Han—Han thought he caught the barest hint of a grin.

Ignoring the other man’s levity, Han simply snarled, “Let me in.” His hand, still smarting from where he had repeatedly smashed it against the door, began to drift down to his blaster.

“There’s no need for that, sir,” the orderly said, the humor replaced now by a quiet, careful note of soothing. “I was sent to take you to the observation room.”

Han hesitated, fingers still a few centims from his blaster. “Observation room?” he asked warily. His eyes shifted from the man to the room still standing open behind his half-shadowed bulk.

“Yes sir,” the orderly replied. “It’s just through the door to your right, and it looks down over the operating room. You’ll be able to see everything being done, as well as monitor your wife’s status.”

Han looked back to the orderly, eyes half-narrowing as he warily scrutinized the man’s face. There was only open honesty in his dark autumn-red eyes, with neither a flicker of dubious intent or curling hint of hidden motive lurking beneath his words.

Stepping back to give the man space to exit the doorway fully, Han dropped his hand loosely to his side, well away from his blaster. “Fine,” he said tersely. “Lead the way.”

The surgery door slid shut behind the orderly, sealing once more with its resolute _snick_ —but this time Han merely turned away, and followed the big man to the smaller door he had noted earlier, set a few paces further down the hall. The orderly withdrew a small keycard from the pouch on his belt, and swiped it through the reader. The blinking red light flashed green, and the door clicked as it unlocked. Opening the door and stepping through, the orderly gestured for Han to follow.

They climbed a short flight of steep steps, then Han was stepping out into a long, thin room. The left-hand wall was dominated by a huge window, which as promised overlooked the surgery beneath. A low table, arrayed with lamps and small datascreens set into the glossy surface, stretched from wall to wall just beneath the window’s lower lip, and half a dozen cushioned chairs sat clustered along the table’s length. Closed cabinets were mounted on the wall opposite the survey window, and a small refrigeration unit stood in the back corner, humming contentedly.

“Would you care for a drink, sir?” the orderly asked, crossing toward the refrigeration unit. “There’s water, and Acordion ale, and Dimor whiskey, as well as a selection of fruit juices.”

“Just water,” Han said, stepping up to the table and looking down through the window into the surgery. Though he would much prefer something stronger, now was not the time.

The room down below bustled with activity. The two surgeons, notable by the long blue coats that they wore over their uniforms, stood on opposite sides of the operating table upon which Leia was now stretched, hands flying and orders sharply barked as they carefully cut all but the most seared clothing away from Leia’s body, leaving her pale and naked and looking oh-so-small as she lay limp and unmoving amid the chaotic bustle. Nurses moved with crisp efficiency, sifting in a swirling storm around the calm eye that surrounded the unconscious queen and the two surgeons, coming near only to provide a new tool when asked, or to collect the singed strips of cloth as they were peeled carefully away from Leia’s body, or to attach a new monitor. Droids waited on the periphery, for the time silent and still, waiting for the moment their mechanical precision was needed.

Grabbing the nearest chair and pulling it over to him, Han sat heavily, and braced his elbows against the tabletop as he leaned forward, not taking his eyes from the scene beneath him. _Gods_ , he thought, cursed, prayed silently, his bones and blood and very flesh aching with pent up fear, and anger, and terrified hope.

There was quiet movement behind him—the open and close of cabinet doors, the chink of glass, the soft rush of pouring water. Then Han heard footsteps, and the orderly reappeared by his side, to set the glass of water by his elbow. “Here, sir,” he said respectfully, before stepping away.

Reaching down, the orderly turned on the nearest datascreen. It flickered briefly as it booted up, then the image resolved into a series of monitor readings—heart rate, oxygen and carbon levels, percentage blood loss, and more—each clearly labeled. Stepping back respectfully, the orderly asked, “Anything else, sir?”

“I don’t think so,” Han said, not taking his eyes off of the bustle of activity around the operating table in the room beneath him.

“I’ll be just down the stairs then,” the man said. “Call if you need anything, sir.”

“Ah, wait,” Han called, turning just in time to catch the man before he disappeared down the steps. “What’s your name?”

“Gregorson, sir,” the orderly said.

Han nodded. “Thank you, Gregorson.”

Gregorson smiled, his dark-hued face lighting. “Of course, sir,” he said. And then with that he was gone, thumping down the stairs and out of sight.

As soon as he was gone, Han turned his attention back to the scene below. His stomach knotted painfully as once more he took in the near-frantic bustle surrounding his unconscious wife. One of the droids had moved forward, just since he’d looked away, and was now positioned at the head of the operating table, long, skeletal limbs extended as it aided in removing the scraps of cloth burned and fused into Leia’s flesh. The two surgeons, meanwhile, had drawn back and were conversing rapidly in a tongue Han could not understand, making short, sharp gestures to punctuate their words.

They seemed to come to a conclusion, for they abruptly parted and began calling orders. One of the surgeons—a tall man thinly built, with silver-steel hair and eyes, and distinct scarlet tattoos on the insides of his arms and the sides of his neck, the curling tendrils disappearing beneath the sleeves of his coat—turned to a counter covered in surgical tools, and began giving instructions to the two nurses who hurried to his side; the other surgeon, meanwhile—who was a stark contrast to his companion, dark-skinned, short, and strong, with carefully trimmed black hair that hinted of metallic purple in the bright, artificial lighting—returned to the operating table, directing another nurse to begin the second stage of anesthetic.

Han fidgeted. He hated feeling helpless—and being able to do nothing but watch as others took Leia’s life into their hands and fought to save her was the worst kind of helpless he could imagine.

It had been hard enough before, just after the detonator had gone off, and when they had been moving her. It had been terrifying, the fear of _Oh gods, what if we kill her?_ and _What if she dies before we get there?_ raging through Han’s head with every step. The anger and the fear had been hot in his stomach, burning like a white-hot poker in his gut. But then— _then_ he had been able to bury his emotions, drown all but the most persistent of the surging black thoughts beneath an ocean of other concerns, beneath waves of orders, beneath the ever-present bite of adrenaline and the rush of action.

Now, though, sitting immobile, watching helplessly as the surgery began in earnest, everything—all of the fear, all of the horror, all of the anger and the despair—came crashing down on Han’s slumped shoulders. _She’s going to die,_ a tiny, niggling voice whispered from the darkest place in Han’s mind. _She’s going to die, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You failed her. You…_

_No,_ Han snapped silently, at both himself and at the cruel whisperings of his mind. _No, she’s not going to die._

_But what if she does?_

Han clamped down on that thought, and buried it deep within the darkest crevice of his mind and heart that he could find. “She’s not going to die,” he whispered, quiet but fierce. “She’s not.”

And yet, as the eternal minutes dragged into the first painful hour, then on into the second, the niggling whispers of doubt and fear grew stronger.

Han had never been one to pray. Why should he, when whatever gods there might be had seen fit to abandon him when he was just a child, leaving him orphaned and alone? Why should he, when the man he called his brother and the woman who was his wife stood as close to gods in power as any mortal could?

Yet, when Leia’s heart stopped for the third time, half a dozen monitors suddenly screaming and red-lining, Han found himself mouthing the words to a prayer he had not prayed since a dark night in a dank cell buried deep beneath Jabba’s palace. _Protect her,_ he begged any power who might be listening. _Bring her through to the morning. Please…_

_Mother Love,_ he added, for the first time invoking the name of the last and greatest of the Alderaanian gods, clasped hands tightening until his knuckles turned white, _she’s your Chosen One, isn’t she? Child Hope? The one who was supposed to bring the gods back to life? The one who was to bring her people through to the new promised land?_ He took a deep breath and went on, more fiercely now, teeth clenched and eyes burning, gaze still locked onto the hive of activity in the surgery room below, ears still ringing with the piercing shrieks of the monitors. _I don’t know if you can hear me,_ he prayed, _but if you can, then I want you to know you need to help her. Somehow. I don’t care how. But…but you need to help her._

An infinite, aching heartbeat that rang hollow and echoing within Han’s chest, shuddering against his ribs, stealing his breath. A second beat. A third…

_Krip!_

The flatlining monitor reading Leia’s heartbeat suddenly flared, emitting a quieter, steadier alert. The surgeons and nurses hesitated in their flurry of frantic activity.

_Krip!_

“Heartrate stabilizing,” Karalin—the copper-haired nurse who had accompanied the gurney from the lobby—called. She flicked a glance up at the observation window, and Han thought that her eyes rested on him for a split second, her expression tight and guarded. But then she blinked and looked away, her attention returning to the monitor close at hand. “Steady.”

“Let’s proceed,” the silver-haired surgeon announced.

A soft sigh escaped Han’s lips, breath that he had not even realized he was holding rushing out from starved lungs. His shoulders slumped, and for an instant he thought he might be sick; his stomach churned and his heart shuddered painfully in his chest, while the acid of bile lurked deep in the back of his throat. _Oh gods,_ he thought again, weakly, numbly, as he watched the surgeons and the nurses resume the surgery, their crimson daubed hands once more going to Leia’s flesh, their knives and their needles once more cutting into her body as they fought to save her life.

Another half hour of tense waiting—of anguished thought, of anxious watching, of half-formed prayers—passed, the seconds timeless, the minutes interminable.

The two pieces of debris that had been lodged in Leia’s stomach and side were moved off to the side, rattling in their metal trays, jagged surfaces blood-stained and the edges still dripping lethargically. The

Knives were exchanged for curved needles and wire thread, clamps and hypos for staples.

Then, at last, the order that Han had been waiting for—the order he had been praying he would hear. “Let’s get her in bacta,” the dark-haired surgeon said briskly.

The move was fast and efficient. One nurse unhooked the numerous monitors and machines attached to Leia’s body, while another slid the breathing mask over her nose and mouth. As soon as they were done, four pairs of hands slid the unconscious queen from the operating table and onto the mesh stretcher being held by the last two nurses.

Forty seconds later, and they were lowering Leia into the low-lying surgical bacta tank set against the far wall, the lid closing and sealing with a hiss. The monitors set into the cover lit up, reading heartrate, brain activity, and half a dozen other things that Han had no care to name—all he cared for was that each glowed a healthy green.

Sitting back in his chair, Han took in a deep, steadying breath. _She’s alive,_ he told himself, eyes still glued to the bacta tank—to the window set into the side through which he could just make out Leia, eyes closed as if she was merely sleeping, spine and neck curved slightly as she hung suspended in the gel-like healing substance. _She’s alive…_

With a shaking hand, Han reached out and picked up the glass of water from where it sat by his elbow, untouched. Lifting it to his lips, Han took a long drink, only realizing just how dry his mouth and throat were when the lukewarm water ran over his tongue.

_She’s alive._

The worst, it seemed, was over—he could only pray that there would be no further complications.


End file.
